Corpse de Ballet (34 page)

“Holy cats!” she said, when the line had stopped reverberating. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes, actually, I do.”

“Great. Now go enjoy tonight.”

“Thank you, Juliet.”

*   *   *

Juliet had invited Murray to attend the premiere of
Great Expectations
with her as a sort of olive branch, a handsome, generous gesture intended to show she had no hard feelings about his refusal to act further on her theory about Hart Hayden.

A week had passed since that day on Mount Tom, and though she still believed she was right—and still hoped that somehow, the truth could be made to come to light—she actually had forgiven Landis quite a bit. Even that stupid crack about the smell-witness. (Anyway, the phrase would be “nose-witness,” wouldn't it?) After a certain amount of fuming and indignation, she had concluded that, once again, he was only doing his professional best. If Murray said the law needed more to go on, it must be so. All the same, she had Caroline Castlingham dump a pitcher of milk punch onto the Earl of Suffield's head.

Inviting him to join her, it had not occurred to her that he would wear a tuxedo. Murray Landis in a tuxedo was a sight for which she had not prepared herself. But when he came to the door to fetch her, there he was in living black-and-white, looking lean and streetwise and hard and elegant and just generally as if he had walked out of a print ad for the male gender. Any remaining grudge she harbored against him disappeared like smoke as she silently thanked whatever impulse had made her put on her slinkiest dress (her only slinky dress, more accurately), the silver one with the sheer, beaded bolero and a long slit up the side of the embroidered skirt. One of the nicest things about staying away from the Jansch this last little while had been the gradual healing of her self-image. She felt soft and fragrant and pretty, and nothing she saw in Landis's face made her feel otherwise.

“Brawcha an awkid,” he announced, bringing forward a clear plastic box of a kind Juliet had not seen since high school. Inside was a deep violet orchid fixed artfully to a pale lavender ribbon. Keeping his body a minimum of three feet from hers at all times, Murray opened the box, reached out his arms and tied the corsage to her wrist. It was a somewhat delicate operation, requiring her to turn her wrist up and submit to being tickled slightly by the accidental brushing of his calloused but dexterous artist's fingers.

A curious pleasure tingled through her. Obviously, he had understood the spirit in which she had invited him. And the orchid, with its associations to a long-gone world, made her feel shy and tender. It was just like Landis, in a way, to bring something at once so innocent and so layered with cultural meaning. Finding herself a little lost for words, she could only smile her thanks at him. He smiled back, apparently equally pleased by her response.

Juliet moved away to fetch a pashmina shawl from the front hall closet. The weather was still warm and summery during the days, but the evenings could get cool, and Cadwell Hall, as she recalled, could be positively frigid.

“Dr. Bodine?”

Ames had clumped in suddenly from the direction of the kitchen, a towering heap of long-stemmed stargazer lilies in her arms. In Juliet's absence, she would be in charge of overseeing the activities of the caterer, the florist, and the half dozen other professionals who had already begun to prepare the apartment for the party set to begin past midnight. “Did you want these in the glass vases or the tall baskets?”

“Oh, the baskets, I think, but see what the florist says,” Juliet replied. She turned back to Murray, intending to introduce him properly to Ames, and saw that his face had gone abruptly dark and angry, as if something had offended him. It was the huge sheaf of lilies, she realized an instant later, which he read as dwarfing his wrist corsage. A flash of reciprocal anger surged through her at what seemed to her his willful obtuseness, his self-centered childishness—as if her having purchased flowers in bulk meant she could not be touched by his single bloom. She had told him she was planning an after-the-show party for the
Great Ex
ensemble. (She had decided early last week to make this impromptu lie to Gayle a reality after all.) Did he imagine she would offer them popcorn and beer in a room strung with crêpe paper streamers?

She felt her own jaw clench and took hold of his arm rather roughly. “We should go now,” she muttered. “Ames, I'll be reachable by voice mail on the cell phone.”

For the next half-hour, conversation between the bristling pair wilted. Neither cared to acknowledge the disappointment each had experienced; neither could put it out of his mind. But the sight of Cadwell Hall filled to its topmost tier with glittering, excited balletomanes (and an acknowledgment in Ruth's notes in the program of the “irreplaceable aid and comfort” Juliet Bodine had provided during the creation of this
Great Expectations
) did something to lift Juliet's spirits, at least, and once the performance began, both left their personal concerns behind and plunged willingly into a sustained, thrilling act of imagination.

It was extraordinary, Juliet thought, watching from the first row of the mezzanine, how the orchestral music, the flow of the narrative, the scenery and grandeur of the stage, even the electricity of the audience infused the scenes she had watched so often with new life. In the time since she had last been in the studio, the dancers had subtly adjusted their movements and expressions to create real characters, so that the drama Ruth had choreographed into each interaction was increased tenfold. Pip's initial encounter with the desperate convict, Magwitch, was as vertiginous as the scene in Dickens itself. A vivid concatenation of lighting, projections, and quasi-grotesque choreography created the fire that burned Miss Havisham; later, parallel effects in fluid greens and blues engulfed the stage as Magwitch and his nemesis, Compeyson, struggled underwater. Again and again, the audience could be felt to stiffen, gasp, relax as a mass. The humor Ruth had incorporated, most of it in Act One, evoked the sorts of smiles that almost but not quite rise to audible laughter. The music, rehearsed in the last few days under the supervision of the composer himself, was superbly played.

And the dancing was vigorous, passionate, exquisite. Ryder made a darkly complex Magwitch, Lily a chilling Havisham. Best of all were Elektra and Hart, she a girl imprisoned by her own inflexible, heartless pride, he a revelation of (by turns) youthful naïveté, yearning, foolish romanticism, brutal ambition and, finally, strength. Watching them, Juliet's consciousness oscillated weirdly, flickering from the perception of Hart as a dancer to Hart as a killer. Art and morality, indeed. (Or artistry and height!) But she could not think long about even that, so absorbed was she by the work Ruth had made, and so happy for her.

The applause at the end of the first two acts was enthusiastic, and the milling crowds that wandered the Hall at intermission were palpably excited, but nothing prepared Juliet for the response to the final curtain. The audience roared and shot to their feet en masse, beating their hands together with that peculiar communal rapture people sometimes achieve at a successful premiere. As the dancers came out for their bows, the audience yelled bravo and brava and bravi with lusty pleasure—bravi for the corps, bravi for the soloists, brava for Lily Bediant (a lavish bouquet was handed up to her from the orchestra), and for Elektra Andreades (ditto).

As Pip, Hart was, of course, the last to take his bow. The house went wild at the sight of him. Later, people would agree he had never danced so brilliantly, so viscerally; it was the singular sort of performance one never forgets. He took a shallow, rather Victorian bow at first, then another, then finally, as the applause thundered on, a deep, theatrical one. His pale hair soaked with sweat, his face glistening, he looked up to the highest tier and around the house, held his hand to his heart, smiled and bowed again, then took Elektra's hand and drew her forward with him. Finally, he dropped to one knee beside her and kissed her fingertips. As he stood again, Juliet (like everyone else in the place, still standing as well) thought she saw an almost feverish glittering in his eyes. A trick of the light, she supposed.

The curtain dropped and rose again, and then began the parade of behind-the-scene players onto the stage: the conductor, the composer, Greg Fleetwood, and, finally, Ruth, looking small and unlike herself in a formal gown. She grimaced, unable to come any closer to the gracious, grateful smile she should have produced, then gave a bow that reminded everyone she also had been a great dancer. Max Devijian walked out on stage with a gigantic bouquet for her and, finally, the curtain fell for the last time.

All their former constraint washed away by the past three hours, Juliet and Landis dawdled at their seats, gazing down at the tops of the heads of those decamping from the orchestra and comparing notes on what they had heard and seen. Occasionally, someone Juliet knew interrupted them and she performed an offhand introduction. Once, Murray nodded coolly to an acquaintance of his own. He showed himself to be more adroit at the required, meaningless meeting-and-greeting than Juliet would have expected, though she did notice his Brooklyn accent was at its peak.

The Jansch had arranged a Champagne reception for the company and a select (but large) set of patrons, donors, and board members to take place on the stage the moment the house was cleared—the sort of event that kept contributions coming in—but Juliet felt she had better skip this and get home to prepare for her own celebration. The only person she really wanted to see anyway was Ruth, and Ruth would be swamped here with admirers bent on claiming a moment of her triumph.

“You'll come with me, won't you?” Juliet asked Landis as, at last, they began to make their way downstairs to the lobby.

Murray made a doubtful face. “I don't know. You gotta remember, I interviewed a lot of these folks officially. I might make them uncomfortable.”

“So what?”

“So it's their party, isn't it? Wouldn't my turning up sort of—dampen things?”

For a moment, she could think of nothing to say. It was a point, she supposed. But an irritating point. And she could not help but suspect it had more to do with his general skittishness about her than any great sensitivity to the feelings of the dancers.

“Oh, fine,” she muttered, at length. In silence, they worked their way across the crowded lobby and out the heavy doors. By arrangement, Ames had sent a car from the service Juliet used, and as they emerged into the clear, still-warm night, she spotted it duly waiting a dozen feet away.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere, at least?” she asked. “Or are you afraid that will dampen something, too?”

Murray shook his head. “I'm just trying to make sure your party is fun,” he said.

“For whom?” He opened the car door for her. She allowed herself to look full in his eyes for a moment. “I would like you to be there.”

He gave a small smile. “Then I'll come later on. After things get going.”

He helped her into the car, waiting while she tucked a fold of her long skirt safely inside the frame.

He leaned down. “You look very beautiful tonight,” he said, then slammed the door.

*   *   *

Teri Malone, Juliet later learned, had spread the word among her colleagues that Ruth's friend Miss Bodine lived in a sort of urban Taj Mahal no one among them could afford to miss. It was partly to this, partly to the dancers' general inclination to party, that she owed the massive attendance at her celebration. The dancers began arriving at about twelve-thirty
A.M.
, corps members first (these being the least sought-after at the official do), then soloists (complaining bitterly of having to chat up the donors right after having had to perform), second cast, Patrick, Lily Bediant, and, finally—one on each of Ruth's arms—Elektra and Hart themselves.

Juliet had already experienced that heady hostess' liftoff that makes local geography swirl and derails any sense of time. People were wandering about on both floors and the terrace of her home, in and out of her living and dining room, up in the sitting room outside her office and—with loud exclamations at the sparkling view—out of doors. Surprisingly, but rather usefully, she found that Teri Malone had set herself up as a sort of junior hostess. Teri had observed and remembered much more of the apartment than Juliet would have thought, and every few minutes, the dancer's small, whistly voice could be heard advising a newcomer on the location of a drink, a bathroom, or phone. Juliet began to see how Teri had won Lily Bediant's confidence. She was deferential in a most agreeable, dignified way, and even if you knew she was trying to catch at your coattails a bit (Juliet suspected she wanted an introduction to Portia Klein), she was not at all unpleasant to have around.

After considerable thought, Juliet had decided on a menu of Gershwin and Cole Porter for the music upstairs, Billie Holiday and Fats Waller for the floor below. The caterers were offering a cold but very substantial meal in the dining room; a full bar had been set up there and another upstairs. Ames, formidable in a dark silk suit and operating from the kitchen, had the staff well in hand. Juliet's only complaint was the smell of the flowers, which she had asked the florist to try to limit, but which was quite overwhelming. She had just decided to run up for a smoke on the terrace when Ruth and her two leading dancers arrived.

“Sweetie!” Ruth threw her arms around Juliet with rare exuberance, kissing her on both cheeks. “You're a genius! I'm a genius!” She gestured to Hart and Elektra to follow her inside. “And here are two more geniuses. Weren't they fabulous?”

Juliet embraced her friend with a deep sense of satisfaction. Yet, at the same moment, the sight of Hart Hayden crossing her threshold unsettled her badly, scared her in fact, she found. She felt her palms go cold and damp. How could she have failed to anticipate this? She believed he had murdered, twice. Must she now make him comfortable, let him roam freely in her apartment?